


Close Your Eyes Before The Sleep

by Waking_dreams



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bottom Louis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endgame Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, M/M, No actual shown BDSM, Oral Sex, Pining, Referenced BDSM, Smut, Subdrop, Subspace, They plan on switching, Top Harry, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waking_dreams/pseuds/Waking_dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry does not believe in love at first sight.</p><p>“It just seems horribly clichéd, you know?” he tells Louis. “Like, the whole idea is that you meet them and it’s love, but you don’t even know them.”</p><p>Louis nods in agreement. He has a point. Still, Louis’ heart does a little twist in his chest. Harry hasn’t given him his number.</p><p> </p><p>Or, the Coffee Shop AU where Louis falls too fast for Harry. Featuring Zayn as Louis' long-suffering roommate, Niall as the life of any party, and Nick as the boyfriend that gets in the way of true love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes Before The Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wasteamoment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasteamoment/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: someone doms Harry and doesn't take care of him in subspace, so he drops and Louis finds him like that.
> 
> ...This turned into more than that, though. And for something written for an Autumn Exchange, Harry doesn't like pumpkin much.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from 'Autumn Leaves' by Ed Sheeran.

Louis has just removed his apron when a lanky, curly-haired angel (in all black—an angel of death?) walks into the coffee shop.

He’s tying his apron back on and knocking his coworker out of the way without even thinking about it. He’s a bit rough with it, knocking her into the counter. “Oops,” he says to her and then, “hi, welcome,” to Curly, too loudly and too soon. He’s unabashedly eyeing Curly up and _Jesus_ —legs and toned arms and holy shit, wide green eyes and full lips.

“Aren’t you on break?” his coworker hisses at him. She’s just jealous. Most of their customers are middle aged people on the way to work. Well, and maybe her hip hurts from hitting the counter. He’ll apologize later.

He jabs an elbow into her side instead. She’s new: she doesn’t get to complain about him taking over. Handling a hot customer is all about how long you’ve worked there.

“Hi,” Curly says back, and yeah, he would have a voice that sends chills up Louis’ arms. Deep and low, dragged out. Is he checking Louis out? He’s either staring at the pastries or at Louis’ hips.

“What can I get you?” Louis asks in his warmest voice. He leans on the counter, and when his coworker snorts, he thinks he may be laying it on a bit thick. Oh well. He was never one for subtlety.

Curly looks at the menu for a second or two, and then orders a medium passion fruit tea, iced. A tea drinker then. Louis contemplates what this means for their compatibility as he scrambles to make the drink. Is both of them being tea drinkers enough common ground to ask him out? Probably should get Curly’s name first, maybe his number. Louis goes to the uni a mile up the street; maybe Curly’s a student, too. Term does start next week.

“Passion fruit tea,” Louis calls out. Another customer has approached the register, but he makes no move to take their order. He’s supposed to be on break, after all. His eyes are on Curly and that adorable smile of his as he steps forward to claim his drink.

“What’s your name? I want to stop calling you Curly in my head,” Louis says, feeling brave, as Curly reaches the counter.

Curly smiles, raising his eyebrows. Is he flirting? God, Louis is pathetic. He honestly can’t remember what it’s like to have a boy flirt with him. He’s out of practice. “Harry,” Curly—Harry replies, drawn out and low. “Harry Styles.” He reaches out, not to grab his drink, but to shake Louis’ hand.

Louis is hopelessly charmed, both by the Harry telling him his full name and by the way Harry’s hand dwarfs his own. “Pleasure to meet you,” he tells him, trying not to blush at the way Harry’s positively smirking now.

“Pleasure, Louis,” Harry says back. Louis is completely confused for the half second it takes him to remember he is at work and wearing a name tag, and then he is utterly embarrassed that he didn’t tell Harry his name.

Harry takes his drink, but doesn’t move to leave. Those wide green eyes study him even as he studies them back. Fuck it. He’s going all out. “I work here,” he blurts out, and starts blushing as Harry laughs and raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I work here Monday through Friday, 6 to 10 every day. AM, I mean. In case you ever want to come back and see me.” He hopes he doesn’t sound weird or desperate or anything. In addition to never having boys flirt with him, he is also hopelessly out of practice with flirting with boys himself.

His heart nearly pounds out of his chest as he waits for Harry’s response. The other boy looks him up and down lazily, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smirk. “Depends on how good the tea is,” Harry tells him, straight-faced. There’s another customer behind him, probably waiting for their drink. Louis can feel his coworker staring holes in the back of his head. Just. He doesn’t care.

Louis hands Harry his drink, trying to look confident about it. Breathe. He’s flirting back. He’s interested. At least a little. Harry accepts the drink, wraps his lips around the straw, pulls his mouth off, looking thoughtful.

“Not bad, Louis. Guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow,” he says, lips curving into a little smile.

Louis tries to hide how giddy this makes him feel. It’s not a phone number, but somehow this is even better. God, he’ll have to get up so damn early tomorrow to style his hair. It’s not a date. He’s just coming back in for another tea. Less pressure. “Tomorrow then, Harry,” he says and gives a smirk and a wave. He feels bubbly inside.

Harry grins and turns, leaving with his drink. Louis watches him go, entranced by the way his bum looks in his dark jeans. Tomorrow.

He turns to his coworker, who has this twisted expression on her face. Grudging respect. “Now I’m on break,” he tells her primly, and takes off his apron, folding it over. He walks out the back of the coffeehouse, and once he’s sure he’s alone, he gives a shout and a little fist pump. What an outstanding start to being back to school. Fall term was starting on a decidedly good note.

***

The next day Louis gets up at half past 4. He’s groggy and disoriented, but the hot shower helps, and he needs the time to style his hair and mold his thighs into black skinny jeans. He hesitates on the shirt—his work allows them to wear either a polo or button-up version with their company’s logo—and eventually goes with the button-up, rolling the sleeves past his forearms. The sky is just beginning to lighten as he begins his walk to work, and the fact that he isn’t cold indicates that it will be blazingly hot later in the day.

Working the opening shift at the coffeehouse is usually a test of willpower, as he usually doesn’t wake up until halfway into his shift. Today, though, he is almost wired, though he hasn’t had any caffeine so far. He sets up the register, organizes the chairs, and begins making himself some tea in record time. Then he waits.

An hour into his shift, the morning rush begins and his coworker joins him, looking as disheveled and unhappy as he normally would at 7 in the morning. Time flies a little faster once he’s no longer alone in the shop, but he still checks the clock above the register entirely too often. Eventually, the rush starts to die a little, and it’s at the point where he would normally take his break. He hesitates with removing his apron—what if Harry is too busy to come, or forgets? His coworker is shooting him weird glances, like she knows how he’s spending entirely too much energy fretting about a near stranger visiting him at work. Then the little bell chimes as the door to the coffeehouse swings open, and gangly, curly-haired Harry is in the doorframe.

Louis checks him out, not subtle at all. He’s again dressed in dark skinny jeans that look as though they’ve been painted on him, this time paired with a dark button-up that’s unbuttoned to his sternum. Louis is entranced by the V of his chest displayed, feeling his eyes glued to that spot. His curls are held back by a bandana, and he’s tucking a pair of sleek sunglasses up over his head—he looks entirely too cool for a coffeehouse. He looks like he should be a rock star, or at the very least, in the center of a mosh pit.

“Hey,” Louis offers, drawing out the word. “Back again, I see.” He tries to sound collected.

“I’m a sucker for good tea,” Harry says back, smirking at him in such a way that says that it’s not, in fact, the tea that brought him back. “And I’ll have a medium passion fruit tea, iced.” He slips a small wallet out of his back pocket as he speaks.

“Of course,” Louis says, taking his money and counting out change from the register. The bell at the front chimes again, and he shoots his coworker a look that clearly says she is the one handling the next customer. He’s going on break. After Harry’s drink, obviously.

He makes the tea in record time, moving with efficiency he usually reserves for those mornings that he wakes up after his shift is supposed to start. “A passion fruit tea for lovely Harry,” he announces, setting the drink on the counter. His heart is pounding as Harry approaches, smiling at him.

Harry opens his mouth, but Louis beats him to it. “You have to be anywhere? I’m on break, and it’s always better to drink tea in company,” he says casually.

Harry shakes his head, laughing. “I’d love the company.”

Louis has shed his apron and cleared the counter before Harry has time to reconsider. Another customer makes a scandalized noise—probably at seeing an employee place his bum on the counter while climbing over it—but he completely ignores it. “Excellent. Right this way, then.” He mock bows, and feels ridiculously pleased with himself when it earns him another laugh.

They sit around a small table in the corner of the coffeehouse. For a few seconds neither of them say anything, until Harry takes a sip of his tea and then laughs suddenly.

“Your coworker looks like she’s going to murder you,” he tells Louis, and then takes another sip.

“She may,” Louis concedes, glancing over at the register. She does look pretty annoyed. “But I think I can handle her. She’s still in training, and they don’t show you the bagel knives until the fifth day.”

Harry laughs again. That’s the fourth time. Louis feels his face getting warm.

“Maybe boiling water, then,” Harry suggests slyly. “Or whipped cream. She could smother you.”

“You’re putting an awful lot of thought into the ways to kill someone in a coffeehouse.”

Laugh number five. Maybe he isn’t as out of practice with flirting as he thought.

“I promise, I’m not planning on killing you.” The way Harry is giggling somewhat ruins his credibility.

“What are you planning on doing to me, then?” Wait, shit. He didn’t mean for it to sound like that. He can feel himself blushing.

Harry’s smirking at him—his panic is probably clear as day on his face. “Haven’t quite decided, yet.” He sips his drink. Louis stares at his mouth, heart pounding.

It’s all downhill from there. Or uphill, depending on your point of view.

***

It becomes a thing. Harry visits Louis at work, they sit at the corner table, Louis stares at Harry’s mouth. Usually because it’s producing words, but sometimes because his lips look especially full around a straw. He also stares at Harry’s phone when it appears, tempted to ask for his number. He holds it in, telling himself that Harry should be the one to make the next move.

Around visit three, they progress from talking during Louis’ break to talking for over an hour after his shift ends. He’s never bored.

By Harry’s fourth visit, Louis has learned that they do, in fact, go to the same uni, that Harry’s last name is Styles and he is fucking adorable in the few baby pictures he hasn’t hidden from Facebook, that Harry has an older sister that lives in London and a grouchy cat that lives in his flat, that Harry has an awful (and cute) tendency to tell awful jokes, that Harry likes his tea iced but his coffee hot, and that Harry does not believe in love at first sight.

“It just seems horribly clichéd, you know?” he tells Louis. “Like, the whole idea is that you meet them and it’s love, but you don’t even know them.”

Louis nods in agreement. He has a point. Still, Louis’ heart does a little twist in his chest. Harry still hasn’t given him his number.

During the fifth visit, Louis learns that Harry used to work in a bakery, that Harry has a huge soft spot for Disney classics, that Harry used to be a band with his best friend and roommate Niall, that Harry still writes songs when his thoughts get to be too much for him. Louis asks him to sing for him. Harry refuses, but laughs and adds that if Louis ever sees him drunk, he should ask then.

Louis really, really likes him. No number yet.

***

On Harry’s sixth visit, he drops The Bomb.

He’s twisting his hands around his drink nervously. Louis feels his own anxiety spike just watching him.

“Louis,” he begins seriously, and Louis’ face drops. Nothing good ever starts with that voice. “I’ve started seeing someone.”

Well. That’s. Not what he thought was going to come out of Harry’s mouth, but it makes some sort of twisted sense. Fucking figures, really.

“I’m really sorry if I’ve been leading you along. I really like spending time with you. I want to keep spending time with you. You’re my friend. I just thought I should tell you in case you—not that you do, just, like in case.” Harry sounds worried. Louis may not know everything about Harry, but this is one of the things he does know: Harry will feel guilty for possibly hurting his feelings, even though they’ve never discussed what it is that they’re doing or made each other any promises. He’s an amazing person, selfless and kind. It’s why Louis can’t bring himself to feel angry about this.

“It’s fine,” Louis says, cutting off his string of apologies. Harry deflates, still looking concerned.

“You sure?” Harry asks, because he’s an amazing person.

Louis isn’t sure. He’s not like in love with Harry, so this sinking feeling in his stomach isn’t heartbreak. He does—did—really like Harry, so maybe that sinking feeling is just disappointment. “I’m sure,” he lies, forces a smile on his face. Harry’s too good of a person to pass up. He will be Harry’s friend if it kills him. “Tell me about him,” he says, and after some hesitation, Harry’s eyes light up and he starts gushing.

When he gets home from work, he snaps at Zayn and leaves his dirty socks in their shared bathroom because he knows it’ll piss him off. Then he skips class to play FIFA and mope all day. Zayn, having been Louis’ roommate for nearly three years, never asks him about it.

***

On the seventh visit, Harry gives him his phone number.

“We’re mates,” he tells Louis solemnly as he types his number into Louis’ phone. “We should hang out sometime not at your work. Don’t know why I didn’t give you my number earlier.”

Louis somewhat bitterly thinks that this may have to do with The Bomb. God, he needs to stop being bitter. Harry deserves better friends. He still spends the rest of the day exchanging emoji-filled texts with Harry.

***

The mysterious significant other is named Nick.

He’s tall and handsome and lanky. Louis has seen the pictures, may have even stalked him on Facebook the afternoon after Harry tells him Nick’s last name. He hoped for someone mean and ugly. Nick doesn’t seem to be either of those things, and he’s the one who feels mean and ugly the first time Nick posts a picture of the two of them, Nick and Harry, grinning and holding hands at a park. They look happy. Louis should be happy.

He goes out with Zayn and Liam, gets spectacularly drunk. He starts to text Harry, but Zayn takes his phone away. He doesn’t kiss anyone that night, and he is angry that he doesn’t particularly want to.

***

Visit ten. It’s been exactly a month since the first day that Harry walked into the coffeehouse. They’ve only seen each other every few days over those weeks, but he doesn’t think there’s been a single hour that’s gone by without a text from Harry Styles lighting up his screen.

“We should really hang out,” Harry tells him. “I’m throwing a party this Friday for Niall’s birthday. You can totally come, bring anyone you want. Niall loves meeting people.”

Louis smiles back. He tells himself it’s not a bitter smile. “Absolutely,” he says, and he mostly means it. A party sounds lovely, and Harry has talked about Niall so frequently that he feels like he knows him. The downside is that Harry has also talked about Nick very frequently, and Louis doesn’t want to know him at all.

“I’ll definitely be drunk, so you can count that as your free pass,” Harry says, laughing.

Louis freezes. His heart skips a beat.

Harry frowns a little at him. “I thought you wanted to hear me sing?” He sounds hesitant.

“Oh yeah,” Louis replies quickly. He’s trying too hard, making his voice too casual. “Better watch out, Hazza, you’ll definitely be singing for me.”

When Harry grins and the conversation continues, Louis wonders if he’s actually an excellent liar or if Harry’s as desperate to ignore this thing between them as Louis is.

***

“Lou-is,” Harry crows as he swings the door open, letting the music violently spill into the hallway. “You’re real!”

Louis can practically smell the alcohol from here. From behind him, Zayn snickers. “What?” he replies, confused.

Harry waves a hand. “You’re real. You exist outside of the coffeehouse. God, just come in, we’re starting a beer pong tournament.” He reaches out and tugs at Louis’ shirt, yanking him in.

God, he’s sloppy. “This is Zayn,” Louis whisper-shouts at Harry. He gestures between them.

“Zayn,” Harry shouts, and flings his arms around him. Zayn looks both amused and confused. “Thank you for Louis,” Harry tells Zayn’s shirt.

“You’re welcome?” Zayn shrugs free of the hug.

“Come meet Niall,” Harry says, and they both follow him further into the flat, through a growing crowd of people.

“Haz! Just the man I wanted to see.” A blond suddenly appears out of the crowd, grinning and red-faced. “Be my partner, we’re gonna start the tournament.” He’s got an Irish accent and his face is open, warm.

Harry hugs the blond happily, then pulls him against his side. “Nialler, this is Louis and his friend Zayn.”

So this is Niall, Louis thinks as the blond pulls him into a hug. “Louis! _The_ Louis, eh? You’re the one Harry’s been cheating on me with.” He lets go of Louis before he can react to _that_ statement, and swoops in on Zayn. “Any friend of Louis’ is a friend of Harry’s and any friend of Harry’s is a friend of mine. Associative property, mate,” he tells Zayn as he slaps him on the back in a friendly sort of way.

“Transitive property,” Zayn mutters, clearly trying not to laugh. It’s only 11. They obviously got started with the drinking early. “Happy birthday, though.”

“Yeah, happy birthday, Nialler!” Harry yells. The people around them pause in their conversations to yell assorted birthday wishes.

“Birthday shot!” Niall shouts in a voice that indicates this is not his first birthday shot of the evening.

“We’re running behind on the drinking,” Louis whispers into Zayn’s ear. Louder, he adds, “Harry, where can I find a drink?”

Harry is helpful normally, but Drunk Harry insists on dragging them to the kitchen and pouring them mixed drinks personally. Drunk Harry also keeps his arm slung around Louis’ waist and laughs at everything. Drunk Harry also encourages Louis and Zayn to take a birthday shot with him—“It’s not my birthday guys, this is for Niall”—and cheers as Louis tips another shot back after that one.

By the time they leave the kitchen to watch the beer pong tournament, Louis is pleasantly buzzed. He’s a little more relaxed than when he arrived, a little more sure of himself. He crows with laughter when Niall trips and drops two full cups of beer on the floor, and chants Harry’s name as he wins another game of beer pong, saving Niall from utter embarrassment on his birthday. He feels light and happy and his friendship with Harry has never felt more real. He feels like he’s actually a part of Harry’s life, and not just some weird little secret. Not that there’s anything that they do that should be a secret. God. Louis isn’t making any sense, even to himself. Maybe he’s a little more than buzzed.

“You’re good luck.” Harry’s breath puffs in his face as he sinks into the couch beside Louis. “I usually have shit aim.”

Louis feels so warm. He finds himself leaning into Harry, and when Harry doesn’t say anything, he drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder. The spinning in his head slows, and he breathes in slowly, can practically taste Harry on his tongue, a little sweat and alcohol, but also something earthy and some sort of masculine cologne. “Harold,” he murmurs into Harry’s neck. “Sing for me.”

Harry goes still, and Louis lifts his head. Is he not drunk enough? He seemed pretty drunk. Maybe Louis isn’t drunk enough. Then Harry’s tugging on his shirt, pressing lips against his ear. Louis can’t breathe as Harry starts to hum, and he feels dizzy as humming turns to words. It’s—Harry—is beautiful, alternatively gravelly and low and high and composed. It’s the Beach Boys, he realizes, and he was never a fan of theirs, but Harry’s baritone crooning _wouldn’t it be nice, oh wouldn’t it be nice_ —he thinks he could become a fan, honestly. He doesn’t trust himself to move, is scared that if he moves the spell would be broken.

It’s broken anyways, by Niall tripping and catching himself on Harry’s shoulder.

“Shit, sorry, Haz,” he apologizes. He rights himself, turning back around, but the spell was lifted.

Harry leans away from him, slowly, and they lock eyes. Louis stares at those lovely green eyes, and that lovely pink mouth, and he just _wants_. He’s leaning forward without a second thought, and he can see Harry’s eyes flutter shut and—

“Nick!” Niall exclaims loudly.

Louis freezes, then yanks himself away. He doesn’t look Harry in the eye. He doesn’t know what he’ll see in Harry’s face, and he doesn’t know what possibility makes him feel worse. He can feel Harry’s weight leave the couch, and when he looks up, he sees them.

The tall man that he recognizes as Nick has his hands cupping Harry’s face, and they’re kissing, open-mouthed and hard.

Louis excuses himself, goes to the kitchen. He runs into Zayn, and a minute later he’s taking another shot. Then another. He might be crying, a little, and not just from the burn of the alcohol down his throat.

“Louis,” Zayn says. “Louis, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to watch it,” Louis blurts out. God, he’s never an emotional drunk, but right now he just feels like everything he’s bottled up in the past few weeks is bursting out of his pores. “Harry and Nick.”

Zayn is silent for a long moment. Then arms are surrounding him, and Zayn is whispering into his hair, “Let’s go home.”

Louis nods, lets Zayn lead him back through the throng of people. He catches a glimpse of Harry and Nick sitting, pressed together on the couch. Nick has his arm around Harry’s shoulders. Then Zayn is practically shoving him out the door of Harry’s flat.

Louis climbs in Zayn’s bed when they get back to their flat. Zayn lets him, and if Louis were sober he would almost be offended: he must look like a hot fucking mess for Zayn to allow him to sleep cuddled up next to him. He curls into a ball and Zayn kind of pets his hair until he falls asleep.

***

He wakes up the next morning to Zayn snoring in his ear, a powerful hangover, and no texts from Harry. He tells himself he’s not going to text Harry first.

Saturday and Sunday come and go and he still hasn’t heard from Harry. He tells himself it’s okay. He’s a terrible liar.

***

Harry Styles strolls into his work on Monday like nothing has happened, offers him a smile, orders a passion fruit tea, iced. Louis just makes it for him, and then stands there. He doesn’t know if this is Harry’s peace offering, or if Harry doesn’t remember anything happened at all, or if he’s just completely ignorant about the whole thing.

“Medium passion fruit iced tea,” he calls out, and doesn’t move to take off his apron.

“Louis,” Harry says warmly. “Aren’t you off?” He checks the clock, as if to confirm that this, in fact, the time that Louis’ shift ends.

“Yeah, but I should stick around. To help.” Louis doesn’t know why he’s avoiding Harry. He wants to kick himself for it, when he sees the confusion on Harry’s face.

“Don’t need any help,” his coworker calls out from behind the register. That traitor. He practically trained her.

“Come on, Lou,” Harry pleads. The little fucker actually sticks out his bottom lip in this adorable little pout.

Louis huffs. “Fine.”

A minute later, they’re sitting at their table in the corner and it’s silent. It’s the uncomfortable kind of silence, the loaded kind where they’re both thinking things that they’ll never say out loud.

“Why’d you leave so suddenly?” Harry blurts out. “From the party, I mean.”

Louis stares at him, tries to determine how much he remembers. “Too much to drink,” he says finally, and it’s a half truth. The best lies are the ones that are half true.

“Niall said you and Zayn just bailed. Thought you might have been mad, or something.” His voice sounds small, and Louis is twitching in his seat as he tries to not reach out and touch him. “Don’t really remember much.”

That more than anything gets rid of Louis’ irrational urge to reach out and touch him.

“So you’re not mad?” Harry asks, and it’s hesitant, as if he expects Louis to explode at the question.

“I’m not mad.” He’s really not mad, but his voice sounds kind of choked. Damn it.

Harry reaches across the table, folding his hand over Louis’ smaller ones. “Lou, you can totally tell me if something’s bothering you.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and makes an effort to sound genuine. “Promise, Hazza.”

“Good.” Harry squeezes his hand, lets his own linger.

Louis looks down, studying the way his hand fits into Harry’s, and he’s lightly running his fingers along Harry’s wrist when Harry flinches slighty. He’s got thin purple bruises surrounding the undersides of his wrists, as if he’d been _restrained_ and Louis’ heart is in his throat when he looks up at Harry, a question in his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” Harry reassures him.

Louis would let it go if not for the color flushing into his cheeks. “Haz, how did you get these?” he asks slowly. Horrible images are flashing through his mind, of Harry being held against his will, of Harry being hurt.

Harry fidgets, and then sighs, blushing. “Nick,” he confesses.

For one horrifying moment, Louis just _reels,_ imagines incredibly violent and well-deserved acts being preformed on Nick Grimshaw in retaliation.

“No,” Harry nearly shouts, eyes wide as he takes in Louis’ shocked expression. “Whoah, Louis, not like that, _Jesus_ , it’s just some bondage.”

“Bondage?” Louis echoes slowly. He’s still caught up in the adrenaline rush of Harry being hurt, Nick abusing his lovely Harry.

Harry blushes hard. “Yeah, like ropes and stuff? It’s a sex thing, Louis,” he says in a rush, sounding mortified.

“I know what bondage is,” Louis snaps back because he doesn’t know how else to take the news that Nick and Harry are having kinky sex. On one hand, Harry and sex is a lovely thought. On the other hand, Harry having sex with someone else is a thought too repulsive for him to seriously consider. “You’re into that?” He sounds doubtful, the thought that Nick is hurting him still echoing in his mind.

Harry blushes, bites his lip. Louis stares at the tiny part of his mouth that is being pinned by teeth. He wants to kiss him so badly. “I mean, yeah? You probably don’t want to hear about that, though.”

Some tiny morbid part of Louis wants to hear every detail because then he can convince himself that Harry does not want him in the slightest. Another (lecherous) part of him wants to hear the details because he is somewhat aroused by the thought of Harry and ropes. Every other part of Louis wants to pretend this conversation never happened and that Harry and Nick are in some sort of celibate relationship. “Only if you want to talk about it,” he says, and then nearly smacks himself in the head with one hand. He doesn’t mean it. Fuck, why does he just say things? (Why is he so self-destructive?)

He is beyond relieved when Harry blushes again, shakes his head no. “I mean, thanks for that, but I’ll pass.”

Louis doesn’t reply and silence stretches between them. He just doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say, I really like you and do you remember singing to me? He also doesn’t want to make a fool of himself and he doesn’t want this potentially beautiful friendship to be nipped in the bud.

“I’ve got to go the library to do some studying,” Harry finally blurts out. “You’re welcome to tag along, I like having a study partner.”

Louis is shaking his head without even giving it some thought. He needs to get away from Harry Styles for at least a few days. Clearly he’s going crazy from being around him all the time. “Some other time,” he promises Harry. Once he’s gotten his head out of the clouds and out of his arse.

After they part ways, Louis can’t get rid of this turbulent feeling in his stomach. He goes home, types in bondage into his favorite porn site, and watches the top video. It’s of a middle aged man restraining a younger man, tying him to a bed and spitting on him, impersonal and cold. Louis feels sick, exits the video straight away. He thinks of the bruises on Harry’s wrists and feels even sicker. He can’t possibly imagine someone actually wanted to dehumanize Harry Styles, and he doesn’t understand at all why Harry would let them. It’s all he can think about for days.

***

“Zayn, do you or Liam ever tie each other up or spit on each other? Like while you’re, you know, fucking?” Louis asks casually when it has bottled up inside of him for over a week.

The silence in the kitchen is deafening.

“That’s none of your fucking business, bro,” Zayn finally snaps at him, resuming his putting the dishes away. He ends up slamming the spoons into the drawer.

Louis winces. He knows it’s none of his business. But keeping his thoughts to himself, letting them circle and circle inside his head, has been driving him crazy for weeks, and Zayn’s his best friend. He can’t think of asking anyone else. “I know, I’m sorry. Just, Zayn, please, mate, I need to know.” Needs to know if this is something that healthy couples do. Needs to know if Harry needs help and is scared to admit it. Harry has seemed normal the time they saw each other since the Bruise Incident, but even if he wasn’t okay, he could be doing a good job of hiding it. Louis doesn’t know what he can believe anymore.

Zayn levels him with the most annoyed expression he’s gotten out of him since the time he used all of Zayn’s shampoo and then replaced it with the generic brand. “None of your business. Why the hell do you want to know, anyways?” He doesn’t sound as angry as before, as if the shock of the question is wearing off.

“It’s complicated,” Louis replies, as if complicated is enough of an explanation. So far, he’s successfully avoided all questions about Harry and his piss-poor moods. He wants to keep that trend going.

Zayn huffs and rolls his eyes. The tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. “You aren’t like, hoping to be invited to join, are you?” He says it dismissively, emphasizing that Louis should not be anticipating such an invitation.

“ _God_ no,” Louis retorts. That was the completely last thing on his mind. Well, maybe not the last, but that was just because Zayn was the second hottest person on the planet and Liam wasn’t far behind him.

“Is this about why you’ve been such a fucking prick lately?” Zayn asks smoothly. He sounds much calmer. “Are we going to actually talk about that?”

Louis groans. He has been a prick, short-tempered, snappy, and purposefully leaving his socks and dishes places they don’t belong. Zayn deserves an explanation, if only for being the best mate he could possibly ask for and knowing when to leave him to drown in his own thoughts. Maybe the trend needs to stop. He doesn’t answer for a long moment, mulling it over.

“Harry and Nick are into it,” he finally blurts out, and feels foolish. Zayn knows now, has got to be able to read his feelings right on his face.

“How exactly do you know what Harry and his boyfriend are into, why does it matter, and oh yeah, what the hell does that have to do with me and Liam?” Zayn speaks slowly, clearly not getting it. Maybe Louis isn’t as transparent as he thought.

“It’s just. I don’t understand,” Louis spits out.

“You don’t have to understand, Lou, no one is trying to tie you up in bed.” Zayn has stopped putting the dishes away to stare at him. Louis studiously avoids his eyes.

“I don’t understand why anyone would want to! Harry has _bruises_ , Zayn, that’s not _okay_!” Louis grinds out.

“Jesus, Lou. Just mind your own business.” Zayn is shaking his head at him.

“I’ve tried, I’m going mental. Look, I just need to know if it’s like normal, and you and Liam have the most normal relationship ever. Like, you guys are boring normal, you know? Fucking married, I swear to God. I just thought I’d ask, I’m sorry.” Louis thinks he sounds strangled. It’s just that Googling “bondage in relationships” had a horribly clinical Wikipedia article as a top result and the second result was an article about Fifty Shades of Grey and abuse and at that point, he was too freaked out to read more.

“It’s not something we do regularly,” Zayn says slowly. “Liam prefers to—wait, no I’m not telling you a thing. Just, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s not like some twisted awful thing.”

“Bruises, though,” Louis protests.

“Come on, you’ve sucked bruises into my neck for fun, and that wasn’t the end of the world.” He’s pretty sure Zayn is laughing at him now.

“I watched some porn—“

“Seriously? Louis, in case it’s ever been unclear, I really don’t want to hear about your habits.” Zayn actually laughs this time.

“Shut up—it seemed so awful and like degrading. It’s not like that?” Louis sounds and feels like a child. God, he feels like some sort of super virgin, and he hasn’t been a virgin in years. He’s heard of bondage before, but he’s never given it any thought at all and now it’s being shoved in his face in little flashes of purple bruises around Harry’s wrists and spitting on people.

“This is the last thing I will ever say on the subject, Lou, I swear to God: watch better porn. It’s not necessarily like that. God. Now fuck off, please.” Zayn turns his back to Louis and resumes putting away the dishes, muttering to himself.

Louis takes his advice. He manages to find some more amateur, do-it-yourself style videos, and one couple giggles and kisses their way through tying each other up and slowly fucking. He feels better (he might even think it’s kind of hot). He’d feel a lot better if not for the fact that Harry is doing this with _Nick._

***

After that, several weeks pass without a major incident. October begins. Louis has to start accepting orders at work for weird pumpkin coffees. Harry comes in and orders pumpkin spice lattes nearly every day, and laughs maniacally when Louis glares at him and makes him a passion fruit tea. He tries and fails to pretend that this doesn’t charm him, that seeing Harry midway through his shift doesn’t make the time go a little faster and lessen his boredom.

Louis also finally takes Harry up on his studying offer. He really didn’t need to know that Harry makes up adorable little songs to memorize things or how Harry likes to suck on a pen while he’s writing. Louis also didn’t really need to know that Harry likes to take yoga breaks while he’s studying, or how wonderful Harry’s thighs look when he’s bent over, stretching.

One day, Harry walks into the coffeeshop wearing some sort of choker. Louis tells him that those went out of fashion, like, 15 years ago, and Harry flushes rather than laughs, touching his throat.

“It’s a collar,” Harry tells him, so quietly that Louis barely catches it.

Louis doesn’t know what this _means_ so he pretends he didn’t hear it. Harry looks almost disappointed when he abruptly changes the subject to how the weather’s finally gotten cold enough that he can comfortably wear a jumper out.

He, of course, Googles “collars for people” when he gets home. Almost immediately, he decides that his instincts were correct, and it’s some sort of weird kinky thing. This makes him want to punch something (preferably that smug asshole Nick, who is in fact neither smug nor an asshole if he’s being entirely honest). Zayn doesn’t say a damn word about his sour mood, and he resolves that when this whole disaster of a fall term is over, he will buy them both a hotel room in London and take him out to get spectacularly plastered.

That night, he has a horrible confusing dream: Harry on his knees before him, green eyes wide and his mouth open, a collar snug around his throat. He feels happy, possessive, even, but then Harry’s face goes blurry and it’s Zayn collared and cuffed and kneeling before him and Liam is there, whispering in his ear that Zayn doesn’t like it like that, pay attention, Louis. He wakes up sweating and if he’s a little bit hard, he will never acknowledge it.

***

“What are you writing?” Louis finally asks, looking over at Harry, who has definitely not been paying attention to the football game on TV.

Harry lifts his head out of his notebook. “Just. Lyrics and things,” he confesses, sounding a little embarrassed.

Louis frowns. Harry’s always maintained that the lyrics only come to him when he can’t escape his own thoughts and emotions, and he’s never seen Harry write before. “Are you, like, okay?” he probes cautiously.

“What? Yeah, brilliant,” Harry rushes to reassure him. He gives him a blinding smile, and in that moment, Louis could not even tell you the score of the football game even though he had waited for this match for days.

After Harry leaves, he finds a piece of paper crumpled up behind his couch. When he unfolds it, he’s greeted with Harry’s loopy script and a little stanza of some unfinished song, scribbles and lines drawn through words rewritten over and over again.

_Yeah, the a taste of your lips on the tip of my tongue_

_Is at the top of the list of the things I want_

_Mind is running in circles of you and me_

_Anyone in between is the enemy_

There is more, but it’s been crossed out to such an extent that Louis can’t tell what it originally said. He stares at the little paper for a long time, eventually folding it up and slipping it into the drawer in his nightstand. He doesn’t know what anything means anymore.

***

“I’ll have a pumpkin spice latte,” Harry says, fluttering his eyelashes at Louis, unable to smother his shit-eating grin.

Louis sighs obnoxiously, rolls his eyes. Another customer gapes at him, likely affronted at his attitude. “One passion fruit tea coming up, Haz.” He takes his money, stuffs it in the register.

“I just love pumpkin, something special about it, you know?” Harry loudly says to no one in particular. He can’t stand pumpkin. “Really gets me in the mood for fall.” Harry’s favorite season is winter. He always says that fall is like some sort of grainy teaser trailer for the grand cinematic release of winter.

Louis is smiling as he makes Harry’s tea. He’s not sure why they do this, why they both crack up about it no matter how many times Harry comes in. Maybe Louis feels warm because he knows these things about Harry, can see right through the smirks and blatant _lies_ that he tells to evoke a laugh. Or maybe he feels warm because the goddamn coffeehouse is tiny and there are currently no less than twenty people in the building.

When he takes a break two customers later, Harry is in the corner table, sucking on his straw and writing in his notebook.

“You sure you’re okay?” he checks as he sits down. Harry looks up, questioning, and then notices Louis’ staring at his notebook.

“It’s not always bad emotions that make me write, Lou.” Still, he pauses, the pen on the page stilling. “I can totally stop if it’s weird or asocial or something, it’s just easier to write around you.”

That makes Louis chest balloon up until he thinks he might burst. “No, I like it. It’s you,” he says honestly, and when Harry ducks his head, smiling, he thinks that may have been a little too honest. Harry has Nick, he reminds himself.

Still, Nick or no Nick, he’s giddy any time that he sees Harry pull his notebook tight against his chest when someone walks by—hiding himself, shy and private in a way that he never is with Louis.

***

The day that changes everything starts off as a normal day. Louis gets up at the crack of dawn—before it, even—and slips into his jeans and work shirt. It’s brisk as he walks to work, as fall has finally decided to take over from summer. He opens, hates every second that he has to force a smile onto his face as a customer snipes about their coffee being too hot or too cold or not having enough creamer. Harry probably wasn’t going to visit him today, either. Subtle as it is, he’s picked up on the fact that Wednesdays seem to be Harry and Nick’s date nights, and that Harry is always absent on Thursdays, likely sleeping the day away after being out late.

So when Harry stumbles through the door at half nine, he’s already wondering what could be going on.

“Hazza,” he greets warmly, giving the boy a smile that he doesn’t return. Louis can feel his own smile starting to slide off his face. Something must be up.

He gets a better look at Harry’s face when he steps close to the counter and he freezes. Harry looks like shit, honestly, with dark circles under his eyes and mussed up hair as if he had not bothered to style or even brush it. What’s worse, though, is the way his pupils are blown wide, the scary closed-off, glazed look to his eyes, and the way he’s wringing his hands, hunching forward to shrink himself. Louis’ mind goes blank, and he knows he’s gaping at him.

“Harry, what happened to you?” he whispers, and reaches over the counter to touch his shoulder.

He flinches— _flinches—_ away from Louis’ hand, and Louis yanks it back, starting to get really fucking scared now. He doesn’t seem high—Louis has seen Harry high and it’s nothing like this—but maybe he took something harder and he’s crashing?

“I—Louis,” Harry whispers, and he sounds so broken that Louis fears he’s going to have a heart attack. Something is very wrong.

Louis shrugs off his apron, flings it behind him. “Cover for me,” he says loudly enough to get his coworker’s attention, and then he’s hopping over the counter.

“Come on, let’s sit down, you can tell me what’s wrong,” he says lowly to Harry, and when he lightly takes his arm, the other boy follows almost blindly, bumping his hip into a table. He doesn’t say a word, and Louis is proper panicking by the time they sit at the corner table.

“Hazza, tell me what happened to you,” Louis whispers, shocked.

Harry starts shaking, folds his arms to dig his fingers into his ribs. Louis can’t breathe, is considering calling an ambulance or his mum or God Himself. “Louis. I—Nick, and I’m fucked up,” he gets out, choked. He looks close to tears, and Louis can feel his own hands shaking. “I’m so—I’m worthless.”

Louis really can’t breathe. They can’t do this here. He’ll take him back to Louis’ flat. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, what could have possibly happened to Harry so that he’s glazed over and feeling _worthless_ —as if there is any universe in which Harry, his Harry is worthless. “I’m going to take you home,” he promises, and tries to make his voice as gentle as he can. “Just follow me, okay, Hazza?” He grips Harry’s arm, leading him up and away from the table, out the door.

It’s only a few blocks to Louis’ flat, but he’s terrified they won’t make it. Harry is more off balance than normal, still shaking, and seems to flinch any time that Louis moves to touch him more than a hand to guide him. He wonders if he’s been attacked, and then he thinks about Harry walking to the coffeehouse like this, alone, from God knows where, and he doesn’t know who is shaking harder anymore.

“It’s okay, Haz, I’ve got you,” he whispers lowly. He’s trying so hard to not let the panic into his voice. He can tell Harry needs him to be strong, and he’s trying to, for the both of them.

He thinks Harry relaxes somewhat at the sound of his voice, so he keeps talking, just babbles into Harry’s ear. “I’m here, you’re okay. You’re safe, I promise, Haz, I’ll keep you safe. We’re almost there.”

About a block from his flat, he realizes that he left his keys at work. He can practically feel his stomach drop, and he struggles to keep the tension out of his body so Harry won’t notice. “I’m going to call Zayn, tell him we’re coming,” he tells Harry, and he sounds so _calm,_ even though he feels like his insides are being shredded. He slips his phone out of his pocket, pressing Zayn’s number with the hand that isn’t holding Harry. It’s not yet ten in the morning. Zayn will most definitely be asleep, _God_ , pick up, Zayn.

It rings and rings, and Louis is breathing faster and faster the longer he waits, struck by the fear that Zayn won’t pick up. Finally, the dial tone ends and Zayn grits out, “It’s not even ten, what do you want?”

“Zayn, thank God,” Louis breathes. The relief in his voice is obvious, even to him. “Harry and I are coming over, I’m don’t have my keys, you have to come down and let us into the building. We’re a minute away.” He can’t tell Zayn how scared he is, because Harry is shaking like a leaf and can’t know that Louis doesn’t know how to handle this. He just prays that Zayn can pick up the urgency even without him saying it.

“I’ll be right down,” Zayn promises, and he sounds more awake.

Louis hangs up on him, focusing back on Harry, who hasn’t said a word since they left the coffeehouse. “Hazza, Zayn’s going to let us in, just around the corner now.”

Zayn is waiting outside the building in his boxers and a Batman shirt, barefoot. His eyes widen as he takes in Harry’s condition, and Louis vigorously shakes his head, telling him to leave it for now.

“In you go, Haz,” he whispers to Harry, and leads him through the door. Zayn lets it softly close behind them, and then is briskly walking around them to beat them to the stairs and then the door to their flat, fitting a key into the lock and holding it open so Harry and Louis can slip in.

Louis feels a little less terrified once they’re inside. “We’ll go to my room,” he decides for them. Zayn is hovering, a look of panic on his face. “Zayn, make us some tea?” Zayn nods, disappearing into the kitchen, and Louis leads Harry to his bedroom.

“Lay down, it’s okay, you’re okay.” He keeps whispering to Harry, trying not to touch him too much, even as he guides him into collapsing on Louis’ bed. Harry balls up immediately, scrunching his face and pressing it into Louis’ pillow. Louis perches on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering as he battles with whether or not he should touch him. “Hazza, can you tell me what happened?”

Harry shudders, and his shoulders start shaking—he’s crying into Louis’ pillow. Louis touches him before he can stop himself, presses his palm against Harry’s back and starts to rub a little. He doesn’t flinch, so Louis breathes a little and presses his other hand to the side of Harry’s face, brushing curls away from his eyes. “It’s me, it’s my fault.” He can just barely make out the words that Harry mumbles into his pillow, and then two more, louder: “Nick left.”

Louis’ head is swimming. He has all these pieces, but he doesn’t know what picture they make when he fits them together. Harry wouldn’t be _this_ upset over being dumped, there _has_ to be more. “It’s not you,” he argues. It can’t possibly be Harry’s fault, whatever this is. “It’s okay, Harry. I’m here, right?” He sounds a little strangled.

Harry lets out a little sob, then, and Louis can feel his own eyes starting to water. _Fuck_. He wants to call his mum, surely she’d know how to handle this. She was always so good at handling his problems and his sister’s problems. He just feels in over his head.

Zayn pokes his head in the room then. “Tea’s ready, Lou,” he says quietly, hesitantly. Louis nods at him, and then Zayn is crossing the room to hand him two steaming mugs. Zayn lightly sits next to Louis on the bed, staring at Harry intently.

“Hazza, can you sit up for me? Zayn made you tea.” Louis slides his fingers through Harry’s curls, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

He’s relieved when Harry obeys, propping himself up against the headboard, and accepting the mug of tea Louis gives him. He takes tiny sips of the tea, and his hand is trembling around the handle of the mug. Louis reaches out, smoothing some of his hair, and Harry flinches again. “He left,” Harry mutters into his mug, and then sniffles. “It’s my fault.”

Zayn leans forward then, looking at Harry intently. “Harry, did he leave you after a scene? Were you guys playing, and then he left?” Louis is bewildered by the serious edge to Zayn’s voice—he’s just been handed another possible puzzle piece and he doesn’t know where it goes.

Harry avoids looking at Zayn, stares into his mug. “Lou,” he pleads, and Louis doesn’t know what he needs, doesn’t know how to help him.

Zayn nudges Louis in the side, and levels him with a significant look. Louis hesitates, and then repeats Zayn’s question, forcing his voice to be soft. “Haz, did Nick leave you after you guys were, um, playing?” He still doesn’t quite know the significance of it: the question, or why Harry nods when he asks it but wouldn’t respond with Zayn.

Zayn lets out a low breath at Harry’s nod, turns back to Louis. “He’s probably dropping. It’s a kink thing,” he tells Louis firmly.

Louis doesn’t understand, not really, but having a name for it makes some of his panic dissipate. “What do I do?” he asks, and he sounds small.

“Comfort him, reassure him, take care of him. I don’t think he wants me here—I don’t think I can help you,” Zayn says, watching the way that Harry flinches at the sound of his voice. Louis agrees—even now, Harry is shying away from Zayn and leaning into Louis’ hand. “But if you need me to get you anything, I’ll either be in the living room or my room.”

“Thanks,” Louis whispers, and squares his shoulders as Zayn leaves. He can handle this. Then he looks at Harry’s drooping shoulders, his blown pupils, the tears on his cheeks, and he doesn’t know if he can handle it, actually. “Hazza, can I touch you?” He’s not sure if Harry wants it: he’s letting Louis pet his hair, yeah, but he also flinches every so often from the contact.

“Don’t deserve it,” Harry murmurs into his palm, and Louis’ heart clenches.

He takes the mug out of Harry’s hand and sets both of them on his nightstand. Harry lets him, doesn’t try to fight. “Yes, you do,” Louis mutters thickly, and scoots up on the bed so he’s stretched out beside Harry. He throws an arm around him, and immediately Harry is burying his face in Louis’ chest, still crying a little. His face safe from Harry’s eyes, Louis lets himself cry a little bit, too, fear and aching sadness bubbling over. “Of course you do, Haz, you deserve the whole world and more.”

“I’m dirty,” Harry argues back, quiet and little. “Don’t deserve it.”

Louis feels a few tears slip down his face at the idea that anything can make Harry feel like this. Once he’s not feeling like his heart is ripped in half, he will destroy Nick Grimshaw for what he’s done. “Yes, you do, Hazza, you’re wonderful. You’re so _kind,_ and funny, and your songs are beautiful.”

“He left though.” The words are not as small, but they are weak and confused.

“I don’t know what fucking idiot would leave you, but it’s on him, Haz, not you.” _I’ll never leave you._ The words nearly make it out. “You always, always brighten my day, and I just—I never feel like you’re judging me. You’re amazing, Harry, honestly.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he snuggles closer, slipping one of his legs over Louis’ thighs. He ducks his head to fit it under Louis’ chin, and Louis strokes up and down his back, closing his eyes as the smell of his hair—strawberry shampoo and something that is just _Harry_ —overwhelms him. He cries a little more into Harry’s curls, muffling himself, because he just feels so raw and afraid and like Harry could shatter in his arms at any minute.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs.

“No, you have nothing to be sorry for. You’re perfect,” Louis rushes out. “I love you.” As soon as the words are out, Louis knows they’re true, and he also knows that he chose one hell of a bad time to be having a romantic epiphany.

Harry jolts in his arms, lifting his head up to look Louis in the eye. “You love me?”

“I love you,” Louis reassures him, his heart pounding. “I love you, Haz. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” He would do anything to make Harry believe it.

Harry smiles, just a little baby smile, but it clears some of the worry from Louis’ chest, and then Harry is wiggling back into a little ball on Louis’ chest. He might still be crying, a little, but he’s not sobbing, and Louis feels much better at that. He aches at having Harry close like this, feeling so perfectly suited to bunch up in his arms and be so close to every inch of him. He slips a hand under the edge of Harry’s t shirt to lightly press against his skin, and Harry just melts into the touch, going boneless on top of him. He moves his other hand to pull Harry’s shirt up a little more, and then he’s just rubbing his hands over the impossibly smooth skin of Harry’s back, feeling Harry’s breathing slowly even out.

He doesn’t know how long they lay there like that. At some point Harry’s limbs go heavy and limp as he drifts off to sleep, his head still pressed into Louis’ neck, his breath still puffing across the goose bumps on Louis’ skin. Louis can feel his own eyes drooping, and eventually he succumbs to the effects of emotional exhaustion and getting up before the sun, falling asleep surrounded by Harry.

***

When he wakes up, it’s mid-afternoon and Harry is no longer on top of him. Biting back panic, he abruptly sits up, and almost immediately relaxes when he realizes Harry has just moved off him to lean propped up against the headboard. He’s holding a pen and a notebook—not his notebook, but one that Louis thinks might have spent a few months unused on his desk. He stops writing when Louis moves, and they just stare at each other for a few seconds.

Harry looks better, is the thing. He has lost that glazed over expression, and their nap (Louis will maintain it was a nap even if it was over five hours long) had done wonders for the exhaustion on his face. Louis isn’t sure, though, and when he speaks, it’s still with the carefully gentle tone he had used earlier. “How’re you feeling, Haz?”

Harry closes his notebook. Louis cannot read the expression on his face. “Vulnerable,” he says finally. “But, like, I’m back in my own head.”

“Glad to have you back,” Louis says slowly. He’s caught in Harry’s eyes, can’t look away, can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“You love me.” It’s neither a question nor an accusation.

Louis swallows hard. “I’m sorry about the timing.” It’s not a direct confirmation, but it’s implied.

Harry doesn’t reply, doesn’t say it back—Louis isn’t disappointed, he’s not going to be bitter about this, too—but sets the notebook down on the bed. Louis can see lines and lines of his writing on the pages, half-formed songs bursting out of him, and when he glances back at Harry, the other boy is _very_ close. Like, he can see the individual eyelashes that frame those lovely green eyes. Louis can’t move, stays perfectly still as Harry leans in and softly kisses him.

He tastes warm and inviting, and Louis is kissing him back instantly, his heart pounding. He’s so wonderfully soft, and his hair is so gentle and fluffy against his fingers. Harry makes a small sound when Louis threads his fingers into his curls, and Louis’ whole world is turned upside down at the knowledge that he can create that noise in Harry, that tiny adorable little noise. If Louis weren’t already in love with him, this kiss would absolutely seal the deal.

“I love you,” Louis breathes against Harry’s lips.

Harry shivers, pulls him back in to kiss him again.

***

Over the next few days, Louis gets the full story in bits and pieces, mostly from Harry but also from extensive internet research into the psychology of kink and submission.

It was unpleasant news after unpleasant news. First, Harry had been in a relationship with Nick that heavily involved BDSM, mostly of the B and S variety. Second, they had dedicated a special night a week to _play_. Third, they had not been nearly as happy as Louis had thought. Nick had been suspicious and jealous of Louis. (A few weeks ago, this might have made him proud. Now it just made him feel tired.) Fourth, they had played on Wednesday night, a little harder than normal, and then had a fight. Louis didn’t ask if the fight was over him. He thinks it probably was. Fifth, Nick had said he’d had enough, and had just left Harry. Both in terms of the relationship and physically walking out.

The hardest part to hear was that Harry thought he would be okay and had gone to bed, only to wake up feeling dazed and worthless and lost and confused, dropping hard after Nick fucking ditched him after a scene.

Louis hates Nick Grimshaw with everything in him. He’s the most irresponsible, selfish git he’s ever met. When he tells Zayn about it, Zayn agrees with him, is shocked and angry that he would leave Harry like that.

“Jesus, you don’t ditch your boyfriend after you spent hours getting him into subspace,” he snarls at Louis as if it was Louis’ fault. Louis agrees entirely, and they spend nearly half an hour coming up with creative ways to describe Nick.

Harry, though, never talks about Nick again. Louis knows he tried calling Harry the day after it happened, but Harry either ignored him or told him to fuck off and Nick hasn’t called back since.

***

Louis hasn’t kissed him since.

He doesn’t know how to bring it up, either. He’s afraid: was it a pity kiss? Did Harry feel obligated because he told him he loved him? Or, the more likely option: was Harry so torn up and upset that he had needed the physical comfort? He had been both dropping _and_ recently dumped. Had it meant anything to Harry? (It had meant the world to Louis). He is afraid to bring up the entire event at all—other than telling him what had happened to cause his drop, Harry hadn’t brought it up, either, and Louis is afraid that bringing it up would cause him pain. He also is painfully aware that Harry has not said he loves Louis, and he doesn’t know if that means that Harry doesn’t have feelings for him at all, or if that means that he doesn’t love him _yet_.

Five days after the kiss, Harry shows up at Louis’ work again.

Louis has a moment of panic right when Harry walks in the door: he pictures Harry’s face on That Day, and he can’t breathe properly until he can tell that Harry is smiling, eyes open and clear. Next he has a moment of anxiety about the kiss: will Harry bring it up? Should he bring it up? He just wants to fold Harry into his arms and breathe him in—should he bring that up, as well? This is the second time he’s seen Harry since taking him home after the kiss, but the first time was around other people, with no opportunities to talk privately.

“Take a walk with me,” Harry tells him, instead of ordering a drink.

Louis scans his face, finding no trace of fear or sadness. He relaxes, and nods, slipping off his apron. “I’m—“

“—taking your break, yeah, I figured,” his coworker finishes for him. For once, she doesn’t sound mad.

“Thanks,” he replies, vaulting the counter to follow Harry out of the coffee shop. He wishes his heart would stop pounding.

He lets Harry lead the way, and then they’re crossing the street, entering the park that sides adjacent to his work. Harry makes a beeline towards one of the quaint wooden benches along the walkway, and slides into the seat, breath puffing visibly in the mid-October morning air. Louis sinks beside him, leaving a bit of space between them—he wonders if Harry notices.

Harry doesn’t say anything right away, and Louis stares at the ground, at the mottled reds and browns of the leaves that cover the concrete. Fall is here in full swing, from dying plants to the brisk snap of the air in the mornings. He almost comments on the season, just for something to say to Harry, but he chokes back the words. Harry doesn’t like fall, anyways, and the small talk would be too much to bear, too tense to be pleasant. He has a feeling that both of them have quite a bit they should say to each other.

“I’m afraid you’ll think less of me,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence between them. “I—I’ve liked you almost since I met you.”

Louis doesn’t know how to respond, exactly. He could never think less of Harry, ever. Harry’s tone does not imply that this was supposed to be good news, and he’s waiting for the _but_ that will surely follow. When it seems that he’s not going to reply, Harry hunches over beside him, balancing his chin on his hands, elbows braced against his knees.

“I walked in, and there you were, all scruffy and beautiful, and then you were so obviously hitting on me. How could I not be interested? I was interested in Nick, too. I’m not denying that. He was my friend and I liked him before I met you. So when he asked me out, I said yeah, because I didn’t think I had a chance with you, Lou. I really didn’t, and it was stupid because it was kinda obvious that you liked me. I just kept telling myself that since you were so friendly, you were like this with everyone, and that you probably were just a naturally flirty person.” Harry pauses, takes a huge breath. Louis’ head is spinning, and he clamps his mouth shut, waiting for the rest of the story to pour out.

“I wasn’t dating him to make you jealous. But when you never seemed jealous, I was only more convinced that you didn’t like me back, and I tried to make myself get over you.” Harry gives him a wan smile, as if the idea is ludicrous.

Louis can’t breathe. “I was so jealous I couldn’t see straight,” he whispers back, the confession heavy on his tongue, and looks at Harry, really _looks_ at him.

He’s chewing on his lip, color flooding his cheeks, and then he looks over at Louis. His eyes are startlingly green today, lovely and deep. His lips curve up as they make eye contact, and Louis smiles back without even meaning to. “I know that, now,” Harry tells him slowly. “But, like, let me tell the story, Lou.”

“Sorry,” Louis tells him, a smile still dancing across his face. He’s not anxious anymore, has decidedly good feelings about where this is going.

“It’s really embarrassing to admit, but I, um, tried to get you to notice the bruises? And the collar?” Harry flushes now.

Louis makes a small, choked noise. He cannot define the swooping feeling in his stomach, but he knows it’s not a _bad_ feeling: Harry wanted him to notice. Harry, showing off for him.

“I know, it’s petty,” Harry admits, glancing down. “And then, that night with the fight, Nick accused me of being in love with you.”

Louis stares at his hands. If Harry isn’t in love with him, he doesn’t want to be looking at his face when he gets the news. “So are you?” The words are hardly more than a breath.

“Can’t rush this story, babe,” Harry says seriously. Louis’ head jerks up at the pet name, and he feels a rush of warmth at the fond expression in his eyes. “ _Anyways_ , I didn’t know if I was, then. I mean, the hesitation was enough for Nick to dump and ditch me. But then when I woke up and I didn’t know what was wrong with me, I just knew that you could make it better. Like, I felt safe with you, and you took such brilliant care of me. When you—you told me how you felt, I _wanted_ to say it back, but I was afraid again. I was afraid I was rushing it, that it may not be true for me yet.” He takes a deep breath.

“Niall kicked my ass last night for dragging this out,” Harry continues. “And I don’t know why I was, really. I wanted this to be perfect, so why not meet you at work? It’s where we met.”

He’s babbling. If Louis could form words right now, he would laugh and tell Harry to get to the fucking point.

“I mean, I’m trying to say, um, me too.”

“You what?” Louis manages to get out. His mouth has widened into a smile that pulls painfully at his cheeks.

“I love you,” Harry clarifies, and gives him a tiny smile that jumpstarts Louis’ heart.

“I love you, too,” Louis says back, grinning, and fists both hands in Harry’s jumper to haul him into a kiss. Their lips have only just pressed together when he pulls back, suddenly remembering. “Also, I could never think less of you. Ever.”

Harry’s face is kind of squished between Louis’ palms, but he’s beaming. “Kiss me,” he demands breathily.

Louis does. _Really_ does, until he’s panting and sucking on Harry’s tongue in a way that is entirely inappropriate for a public space. He’s about to regain control of himself when Harry makes this needy little sound, and then all thoughts of control fly out the window. Now he’s trying to not straddle Harry’s lap, grind their hips together. He has a fist in Harry’s curls that’s angling his head so Louis can take his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down harder than he means to. Harry doesn’t mind, breathing coming in sharp puffs into Louis’ mouth, and he starts to shift forward as if he’s going to be the one who caves and sits on the other’s lap. He’s starting to sling a leg over Louis’ lap, and his thigh brushes across the outline of Louis’ cock in his trousers and—

“Fuck,” Louis gasps, jerking away. “Public. Public place. Let’s go someplace else, yeah?” He’s breathing as if he’d just finished running a few kilometers, and the hot look in Harry’s eyes is only thing that’s stopping him from being embarrassed by how fucking randy he got from a kiss on a park bench. At least they’re even.

“We can go back to mine,” Harry offers lowly. His hand scrapes down Louis’ side, hot through his shirt. Fuck. Louis doesn’t know if they’ll make it, but he decides to try anyways, hoping that walking will subdue the erection that’s entirely too obvious in his skinny jeans.

***

They do make it.

Luckily Niall is not home. They don’t know that until later, which makes their entrance to the apartment (wrapped up in each other, buttons already being undone, breathless and laughing) all the more risky—“Risqué,” Harry comments with an eyebrow wiggle when Louis voices this thought aloud. Louis shakes his head, refusing to acknowledge this weak joke—does that even count as a joke—with a laugh, even as he tries to kiss him. God, he loves him.

“Lovely room,” Louis tells Harry’s neck as he’s manhandled into the room in question: Harry’s bedroom. He bites down at Harry’s skin, flicking his tongue so his mouth fills with the salty-sweet taste of sweat and Harry.

“Yeah, my sister helped me decorate when I moved in,” Harry pants back at him, shuddering under Louis’ mouth. “Fuck. Bed.”

Louis obliges, angling their movements so they end up toppling back onto Harry’s bed. He lands beneath the taller boy, and immediately reaches back to grab his bum, haul him up so he’s straddling Louis. Perfect. He takes just one brief moment to admire Harry: the smooth lines of his chest, the way his curls are now long enough to brush his shoulders, the softness of his mouth. Utterly perfect. He pulls lightly at those lovely curls, kisses his mouth again, runs a hand down his chest, scraping nail across his hip bones. Harry lurches above him, kissing him back almost sloppily, all enthusiasm and unbridled affection.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but suddenly a spark of unease, fear appears low in his gut. He thinks of collars and bruises on wrists and crying and feeling worthless and he doesn’t know if he can do it. He wants to give Harry the world, wants to see him smile every day, but he doesn’t know if he can give Harry _that_. He pulls back from the kiss, trying to find the words to say that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to fuck Harry the way that Harry clearly likes.

“Lou,” Harry pants before he can find those words. “Your—can I suck you off?”

Louis swallows those words hard. _Fuck_. It’s just a blowjob, he’s not asking for Louis to—to dominate him. He’s thought of Harry’s mouth around him for weeks—months, honestly. He nods, and Harry grins at him as he shuffles down to peel Louis’ jeans down his thighs. Louis focuses very hard on not doing anything embarrassing, like nutting on Harry’s face before he even gets a chance to suck him. The only warning he gets is the slight heat of Harry’s breath on his hips and then Harry’s tongue is swiping across the head of his cock.

“Haz,” he groans out, his hips jerking. Fuck. It’s been so long since he’s had sex, and he tells himself that this is the reason he feels so close to losing it before Harry even gets his mouth all the way around him.

Harry mumbles something back. It’s too quiet to hear and Louis cannot concentrate on anything other than the way that Harry is starting to slowly suck the head of his cock into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. His mouth is so soft and warm, and his tongue is pressing in all the right spots, guiding his cock further into Harry’s mouth. Louis props himself up then, leaning back on his elbows, so he can watch as Harry begins to slowly bob his head, taking and giving. It’s absolutely mesmerizing, the way that his lips are stretched and pink and shiny and the way that his brow is furrowed in concentration. He works a hand in then, pumping along with the rhythm of his mouth and throat, swallowing Louis down.

It’s almost too much. His hand is rough and tight, twisting, and his mouth is exactly the opposite: wet and hot and soft. Louis jerks in his hold, bucking his hips up, and Harry just _takes_ it, allowing his cock to slide further into his throat. Louis sees stars, then, because Harry slides further, until his nose is almost pressed to Louis’ skin, and makes a little sound in his throat that vibrates around Louis’ cock. He can hear himself moan, and he reaches down to fist a hand in Harry’s curls, direct him to move. He rolls his hips up at the same time, a subtle mimicry of fucking, and the little moan Harry lets out is too much.

“Gonna come,” he grits out, trying to warn him. Harry sucks harder, is the thing, and Louis can feel himself shaking. He can see the outline of his cock in the Harry’s cheek when he thrusts up, can see the way Harry ducks his head to follow him when his hips come down. Green eyes flick up to meet his for just a second, and he comes even as he tries desperately to commit this sight to memory: green eyes, heavy lidded, lips taunt, cheeks hallowed. Harry keeps sucking him through, and he feels almost dizzy at the continued pressure around his cock, squirming as it becomes sensitive and harsh.

Harry finally pulls off, and _God_ , he’s got this awful smirk on his face. Louis wants to kiss it off him. “Lou,” Harry says slowly, and when he opens his mouth, Louis just knows some horrible joke is coming. Probably one that he thought of mid blow job.

He tugs Harry up so he can kiss him before he has to listen to the damn joke (even if it would be kind of cute). He licks his way into Harry’s mouth, and tasting himself should not be this hot. Harry’s enthusiastic, kissing him back almost sloppily, and scoots up more so that he’s straddling Louis. He’s still hard, tenting out his pants, and the weight of his cock feels like a brand against Louis’ skin. He wants to see him come, wants to know if his mouth will fall open or if his eyes will close or what he’ll sound like.

“Wanna get you off,” he pants into Harry’s mouth.

Harry pulls away, his eyes bright. “Fuck me?” he asks, sounding almost coy.

Louis flinches a little. Bruises and collars. “I can’t,” he whispers back, and he doesn’t know if this is shame or fear that he feels.

Harry stills. “Can’t as in you just came and it’s too soon? Or can’t for other reasons?” he asks. His tone is serious, jolting Louis even further out of his haze of arousal.

“Other reasons,” he mumbles back. He knows he could be half hard again in seconds from Harry just kissing him. But he doesn’t want to fuck things up, to disappoint Harry.

“Do you—should we talk about those other reasons?” _Fuck._ Harry sounds upset. He’s upset him anyways, when not fucking him was supposed to be about _not_ upsetting him.

“Not now, please.” It’s half conflict-avoidance and half he-wants-to-get-Harry-off.

“Okay,” Harry says, confused and tentative. Louis has murdered the mood completely, then. “Can I kiss you?”

“Course, Haz,” he breathes out.

When Harry kisses him, it’s tentative. He hates that, knows its his fault that Harry is probably wondering what his weird aversion to having sex is, when up to this point he’s said nothing to indicate he doesn’t want it. So he kisses him back, and it’s not gentle, because if there’s one thing Harry should know, it’s that Louis _wants_ him. He bites Harry’s lip, sucking it hard, and tugs at his curls to elicit another little breathy sound.

Harry moves then, angling himself to grind down against Louis’ stomach. He’s hard and heavy on top of him, and Louis finds he likes this feeling of being pressed to a mattress, of having Harry lying on top of him. He grinds back, more than half-hard now, and lets Harry break the kiss to suck right below his jaw. He’s noticed Harry’s cock before, is the thing. He’s noticed it from the instant it made an appearance. It’s just that he hasn’t really taken the time to appreciate it, how thick it is, how Harry whines when he reaches between them and into Harry’s pants to take it in his hand. He feels hot to the touch, and Louis’ struggling to tear down Harry’s pants with one hand even as he starts to give the world’s most compromised hand job. Harry doesn’t seem to mind: he’s rolling his hips into it, holding himself just high enough above Louis to give enough room. Louis just _aches_ with want—he wants Harry on top of him forever, making those noises into his ear.

“Fuck me,” he groans into Harry’s skin.

Harry slows. “Like—inside of you?” he asks somewhat dumbly. Louis rolls his eyes even as a smile takes over his face.

“Put your fucking cock in my arse,” Louis snaps back, horny and impatient and impossibly fond. He thrusts up with his hips so that Harry’s cock drags across his skin, smearing a damp trail. God. He doesn’t bottom often, but he doesn’t encounter a cock attached to Harry often, either.

“Yeah, fuck, okay,” Harry grunts into his neck. He heaves himself off Louis, then, and he’s quite a sight: his face red, his eyes wide, and his cock thick and heavy against his thigh. He shakes his head, as if to compose himself, and then he reaches over Louis to the drawers by the bed. He hands the small bottle of lube to Louis, and then hesitates. “Could you—can I see—“

“Want me to finger myself open, baby?” Louis breathes out, more than a little turned on by this. He unscrews the bottle of lube as Harry nods back, his lip between his teeth. He’s dribbling some lube onto his fingers when he catches the smell: pumpkin. “Harry Styles, did you give me pumpkin flavored lube?” He can’t help the giggle coming out of him.

“What?” Harry snatches the bottle away from him, reading the label. His face contorts in disgust, and Louis feels a smile stretching at his cheeks. He’s so adorable with his nose all wrinkled. “Ew, no, I would never, swear. It must be Niall, he thinks he’s being funny. I have more.” He’s blushing, hard, and he returns to the little set of drawers, rummaging for a moment.

“What’s wrong with the pumpkin?” Louis asks innocently. The look Harry gives him is probably meant to be one of exasperation, but he ends up looking dopily fond.

“Don’t want pumpkin,” he huffs out, handing Louis a different bottle of lube. “Want you.” The look he gives Louis is dark, purposeful, and Louis’ practically dumping lube on his fingers, trying to speed things along.

He arches up his hips, reaching down to smear some of the lube around his entrance. Harry’s eyes are switching between his face and his entrance, and by the time he reaches down to press the first finger in, Harry’s got his hand around his cock, lazily stroking himself. He moans, a little, and Louis moans back—it’s been entirely too long since he’s fingered himself. He’s tight, and the presence of even just two fingers has him shaking and fucking his hips back and forth. It takes a few movements before he finds his own prostate, and then he’s panting, shivering, and Harry’s pupils are so wide he can barely see the green.

“Want you,” Louis breathes out, and he slips a third finger in, groaning at the slight burn. “Kiss me, Haz.”

Harry leans over him to press their mouths together and take Louis’ lip between his teeth. Louis puffs out a groan, speeding up his hand, and he can feel Harry’s hand brushing against his skin as he plays with his own cock. He scissors his fingers out, then, because Harry looks big and he doesn’t want to feel anything but bliss when he gets that cock inside of him.

“So beautiful,” Harry whispers, and ducks to suck a bruise below Louis’ jaw.

“Fuck.” His hips jerk up, and he’s so, so done of waiting. “C’mon, babe, m’ready.”

Harry sits up, then, and Louis pumps his wrist, fucking himself, as Harry rips open a small package and rolls a condom down his cock. He takes the bottle of lube, spreading some over himself, fucking up into his fist, and Louis watches, his own cock leaking onto his stomach. Then Harry is taking his wrist, guiding his fingers out of his entrance, and Harry is lifting that hand to his face. He sucks on the tips of Louis’ fingers, lightly, and then releases him, shifting so his hips are pressed between Louis’ thighs.

“Love you,” Harry breathes, and lines up the head of his cock to Louis’ entrance. He pushes inside, then, and Louis groans at the stretch, at the friction, twisting under him. A hand settles on his hip, then, and Harry holds him still as he bottoms out, so deep inside him that Louis sees stars.

“God, move,” he gasps, when a few seconds pass and Harry hasn’t thrust back into him. He’s giving Louis a soft, fond look, but Louis doesn’t want fond, he wants to be fucked. Well, to be fucked fondly—the two are not mutually exclusive.

Harry chokes out a laugh, and then he moves, drawing his hips out and pushing back in. “So needy.”

Louis glares up at him—he isn’t needy. He scrapes his nails down Harry’s chest, letting them catch over his nipples, and he rolls his hips up, clenching hard around Harry’s cock. Harry’s the needy one, then: he shudders out a moan, his hips stuttering to a stall while he gets his wits back about him. Louis kisses him, swallowing the noise he makes, and when Harry thrusts again, it’s rougher and it brings a smirk to Louis’ lips. Another thrust follows, harder than the first, and Louis moans, a little, moving his hand to fist his cock.

Harry is incredible—his arms are forming a little cage around Louis’ torso as he holds himself up, and when Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, he can feel how strong his thighs are, tensing as he thrusts forward. _God_. It’s better than he imagined, all those nights that he imagined his cock in Harry or Harry’s cock in him or just their cocks together, really. He mumbles something along those lines into Harry’s neck, incoherent, his words punctuated by little gasps. Harry seems to get the gist of it, though, and he smiles and moves to mouth wetly at Louis’ throat.

“Want you to come in me,” Louis grits out, grunting as Harry bucks into him a little unsteadily. He does want it: even with a condom, he wants to know that Harry’s come is inside of him. He doesn’t know where this is coming from; he was ambivalent about bottoming before, let alone thinking about someone’s come in his ass.

Harry clearly likes the idea. He whines a little into the skin at Louis’ throat and reaches down to wrap his hand around Louis’ cock, wanking him off. His hands are bigger; Louis already knew that, but what he was a little unprepared for was the strength in his grip and the little scrape of his callouses. Harry’s cock presses into him, hitting his prostate, and Harry’s hand twists around him, and he’s going to do something embarrassing, like pass out in the middle of sex. He ends up coming, instead, in little ropes across both of their stomachs, and Harry goes a little wild for it, moaning loudly into Harry’s neck

“Haz,” he says, and it’s more of a whine than anything else. “Want you to come.” He’s stretched and sensitive, and the thought of Harry coming is almost enough to get him hard again.

“Yeah,” Harry groans back, and his fingers dig into Louis’ skin— _God_ , please let those leave marks. Louis scratches him back, pinching at his nipple, and then Harry is stiffening up, his eyes fluttering closed as he comes. His hips keep moving, tiny little thrusts, and Louis is breathing hard, with him, both of them staring at each other in wonder.

Finally Harry pulls out and sits back a little to dispose of the condom in a bin nearby. He has a beautiful smile across his face, dopey and slow, and when he looks at him, Louis feels like his chest is too small for his heart. Harry returns quickly, and they kiss, open and wet and easy. Harry can’t stop smiling into the kiss, and Louis gets teeth against his lips more often than not. He doesn’t mind at all, even if he makes little frustrated huffs when Harry giggles instead of sucking on his tongue.

“Kiss me like you mean it,” Louis complains, poking Harry in the side. He squirms a little, giggling, and God, Louis is stupidly in love with him.

“Can I call you my boyfriend?” Harry asks him, instead of kissing him, and _honestly_.

“The ‘I love you’ wasn’t clear enough?” Louis runs his fingers lightly down Harry’s ribs, grinning as he gets all squirmy again. Utterly adorable.

“Lou,” he protests, eyes watering a little as he bats at Louis’ hand.

“I love you, Harold, in a very boyfriend sort of way,” Louis declares, and Harry finally kisses him.

***

Eventually hunger drives them out of bed, and they barely manage to get dressed, let alone make it to the kitchen, with the way they keep stopping to kiss. When they do make it to the kitchen, Niall is sitting at the table, and gives them a very dirty look.

“Next time you’re going to have loud sex, check your phone first,” he complains. Louis flushes, a little, but Harry laughs. Niall gets up to make them a cup of tea, though, so he can’t be _too_ mad.

“Why?” Harry asks, and pops open the cupboard. “Niall, we have no food. Louis, are you okay with biscuits? Cuz that’s all we have.”

“I love biscuits,” Louis replies.

“Because I left my phone charger on your desk,” Niall continues. “And I texted you about this earlier. You stranded me out here.”

“Like you haven’t had sex while I was home,” Harry points out petulantly, and brings Louis a little platter of biscuits. They’re the ones with vanilla icing in the middle, excellent.

“I am a virgin,” Niall argues back, and the way he cackles after implies the exact opposite.

“Also, I found pumpkin lube in my drawer. Why’s that, you suppose?” Harry demands, and levels a teaspoon at him accusingly. Louis bites back a laugh, but there’s no stopping the smile on his face as he watches the two of them.

Niall grins. “Finally, I put that in there two weeks ago.”

“We had a rule: no pumpkin in this apartment,” Harry groans. Louis eats a biscuit to keep from giggling. His boyfriend is so adorable when he’s like this, and he gets a little thrill out of thinking the word _boyfriend_.

“It’s festive,” Niall retorts, pouring two cups of tea. “The spirit of autumn.” He hands Louis the cup, producing a little pitcher of cream and some sugar.

“I hate autumn,” Harry complains, but he smiles at Louis.

“No, you don’t,” Louis interjects.

“Fine, fall’s not so bad,” Harry concedes. He smirks, then, and Louis groans, having already figured out what’s coming next. “It’s when I _fell_ for you, Lou.”

***

“Why don’t you want to fuck me?” Harry asks him, later, once Niall fetched his charger and went out for the night and they’ve moved their cuddling back to Harry’s bed. “Not that it’s, like, a problem, because fucking you was wonderful—but I feel like it’s something we should talk about.”

“I do want to fuck you,” Louis tells him, because Harry should never feel undesired in any way. God, what should he say? _I love you, darling, but I’m terrified by collars._ “It’s not that.” Maybe Harry will just take a hint, maybe he won’t have to come out and say it.

“Then what is it?” He’s determined, though, and Louis should’ve known better. He’s not going to let this go.

“I don’t think I can the way you want me to,” Louis blurts out, and then ducks his head so he doesn’t have to see Harry’s face.

“What do you mean, the way I want you to?” His voice is slow, even. Either he really doesn’t get it, or he’s dragging it out of Louis on purpose.

Louis can feel the heat on his cheeks. “Like, collars, and subbing, and whips, and stuff.” He’s going to die of mortification. Zayn is going to have to come to Harry’s apartment and pick up his body.

The pause that follows is excruciatingly long, and Louis doesn’t get up the courage to look him in the eye. Eventually, Harry speaks, and his voice sounds a little confused and a lot hurt. “Have I—have I ever told you that I wanted that?”

 _Fuck_. His voice wavered, a little, and Louis feels like the biggest arsehole on the planet. “No, but the thing with Nick. I thought that’s what you’re into.” Is he not into it? His reaction is completely not what Louis expected.

“I mean, it’s fun sometimes, but what’s that got to do with you and me?” He touches Louis’ arm, gently. “Please look at me, Lou.”

He does, and Harry’s face is open and gentle, as if anything else would scare Louis away. “It scared me,” he confesses, sagging a little under the weight of those green eyes. “Seeing you like that, on that day, you know.”

“Lou.” His face softens even more. “That won’t happen again. Even if we tried doing some of that stuff, I trust you. You wouldn’t ditch me like he did.”

Louis shakes his head. He still doesn’t quite get it. “It scares me that anyone has that much power over you.” The thought of being able to do that to Harry terrifies him, even if he loves him too much to let it happen.

“That’s not—if you dumped me, right now, Lou, I’d fucking cry my eyes out for days. That’s not because you have power over me. It’s because I love you and I trust you and you betrayed it, in a way.” He frowns, thoughtfully. “Not that I loved Nick, just that it’s not all about power. A lot is about trust and vulnerability. And that’s not like a perfect analogy but it’s a little similar, at least?”

Louis blinks. He’d never do that Harry, just dump him out of the blue. And maybe that’s Harry’s point: if he wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t let them play in a way that made Harry get so vulnerable and hurt that he breaks down like that. It makes him feel a little better, but he’s still not entirely sold on the idea. Harry can definitely read the doubt on his face; he opens his mouth and keeps going.

“I will still love you if you never want to fuck me, let alone do kinkier things,” Harry tells him very seriously. “That doesn’t really matter to me. But I don’t want you to be afraid of yourself, or me. Be careful, sure, yeah, great idea. But don’t be afraid, Lou.”

He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He thinks his eyes are watering a little bit. “I love you,” he gets out before Harry pulls him into a hug. Harry is incredible, honestly.

“I love you too, Lou,” Harry whispers, and ruffles his hair a little. “Tell me what you’re thinking, next time you get all freaked out, okay?”

“Okay.” That he can promise. Being open with Harry has only ever brought good things. Which, speaking of: “I do want to fuck you.”

“Like now?” He pulls back, and his eyes are a little darker than before.

Jesus. “Give me ten minutes to rethink my views on sex,” he says drily. Harry grins at him.

“Ten minutes,” Harry agrees, and takes out his phone. He sets a fucking timer, and shows it to Louis. “Better start thinking, Lou.” He presses the start button, and wiggles his way back into Louis’ arms.

Louis hides his smile against Harry’s curls. He loves this boy like nothing else.


End file.
